


White Noise

by woollen_pharaohs



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M, hints of past relationship, in which matt and foggy are cute idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 11:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3848908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woollen_pharaohs/pseuds/woollen_pharaohs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Fisk is put away the city falls silent. Foggy's still mad at him but the longer Matt puts off reparations the worse it's going to get. It takes a mistake and a phone call to convince Matt he's got to get back up, to do better. And it takes over-bearing noise to make him realize he needs his friends in his life.</p><p>Post season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Noise

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as a pwp but ended up having a big lead up? And ended up being heaps longer than I ever intended? But i hope you guys like it anyway??

Matt hears the jingle of keys at his front door and he tries to roll over, wincing at the pain that darts across his back. Claire lets herself in and Matt sinks further into the couch. Claire smells of disinfectant and the cheap starchy smell of bandages that signifies that she’s come straight from the hospital. Claire drops her bag on the floor on front of Matt and sighs deeply, “I shouldn’t be shocked by now but I always am.”

She kneels down, fishes for scissors from her bag and begins cutting Matt’s black shirt open.

“Where’s your red suit?” Claire asks flatly.

Matt tongues the cushion out of his mouth and mumbles, “turns out it takes ages to dry.”

Claire clicks her tongue as she peels away the remnants of Matt’s shirt, exposing his wounds to fresh air. Matt can sense the tension in the air, can feel it in the tautness of her movements, in the shortness of her breath, in teeth ground shut. He tries to remember calling her, he did say sorry, right?

Claire pauses her work to sneeze into her shoulder, then continues to dab disinfectant into the scratches covering Matt’s back.

“What happened?” Claire asks, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

“I was, uh, in the park, doing surveillance work. Putting Fisk in jail might have scared the underlings for a moment, but crime isn’t dead. I’m just trying to-“ Matt flinches as Claire threads a needle through his skin, sewing up a particularly large gash, “trying to connect the dots from what fell apart, before the bad guys can put it all back together again.”

“And what did you find?”

Matt takes the cushion in his mouth again, biting down briefly, then turns his face to the side, “Nothing... It’s like the city’s silent. But it shouldn’t be.”

Claire sneezes again, wiping her nose with her sleeve, then she rubs her eyes with her knuckles, “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not really. They’re scared. They’re going to take more precautions, make it harder for me to stop them. And it’s working so far.”

“That still doesn’t explain,” Claire begins, her nose becoming clogged, “how you got hurt like this.”

Matt swallows, “I’m not sure you want to know that part.”

“Tell me.”

“I was in a tree…” Matt says quietly.

“A tree,” Claire repeats.

“Rescuing a cat.”

“You’re kidding!” Claire exclaims, immediately ripping off her gloves and standing up, “Matt you _know_ I’m allergic!”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Matt says, trying to sit up, “I didn’t want you to… to think less of me.”

“For saving old ladies’ cats from trees?” Claire scoffs, dismayed.

Matt winces and lays himself back down on the couch, gripping the frame, “you think saving cats lives aren’t important?”

“No, you don’t get to spin this back on me Matt. It matters that you tell me a cat is involved so I can medicate myself before effectively medicating you. Whether or not I like cats doesn’t come into it at all. And you know what, if this is about you and your _daredevil_ ego, then you’re right, I am going to think less of you. You can do a lot better Matt.”

“Better? There’s nothing going on, no crime lord to fight.”

“I’m not talking about you trying to fight ‘better’ crimes, whatever that means. I’m saying that you need to use this down time to be a better person Matt. Be a better friend.”

Claire picks up her bag and rummages through it, then pulls out a strip of anti-allergies eye drops. As she squeezes a drop in her eye, Matt finds sits up on the couch, bending forward, back still sticky with sweat and blood.

“I am sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Claire drops another in her other eye, sniffing as she blinks the chemicals in, “it’s alright, I just would have liked to have known earlier okay? I didn’t do the best job of patching you up.”

Matt squeezes his hands together, “I’m sure it’s fine. Will you stay?”

Claire mutters a swear she intends to be inaudible, then says, “you know how this works Matt. Get yourself washed up.”

She throws her bag over her shoulder and makes her way to the front door. She pauses before it, calling out, “next time, make sure you tell me everything I need to know first.”

The door slams shut and Matt listens to her standing outside his door, catching her breath, cooling down. Her breathing evens but her body is still tense as she moves off down the hall, stretching out farther and farther, elastic ready to snap.

 

-

 

Matt heaves, grips onto the stretched canvas that wraps around the ropes of the boxing ring. He sags against the ring, his knuckles thrumming, swelling, sweat and blood seeping through the wraps. Beyond the confines of the bricks and plaster, dust and ruin, that bind the gym together, Matt lets the noise overflow him as he recuperates. Chatter from the neighbourhood washes over him, whispers and screams and laughs and sighs, a myriad of voices, of conversations with family, with friends, with strangers, with themselves. It comes to him in a rushing river, sounds in the form of white noise, of scratchy static. Occasionally the river swells over the banks, splashes on him in the form of coherent words, but mostly Matt lets the river run, avoids building the dam to filter it through.

From his bag he starts getting a phone call, “Karen, Karen,” the phone announces, the dominant noise in the room.

Matt stands by the river bank, caller ID floating on the surface of the water, a contradiction to the rushing current. The call ends and begins again, determined to remain in his focus, not to be ignored. The soothing voice of the announcement dominates the chatter from outside, louder but soft, prominent but gentle.

“One new voicemail,” the phone declares.

He wishes they’d stop calling him. A calamity of human noises, of passing trucks and trains and the exhaust of cars, noise pollution man and man-made, it should sit at his periphery but he allows it to come crashing through, collude with the river, ruin the land, create its own path, its own river bed and spark creeks and lakes and oceans. He wishes they’d never stop. Never forget about him.

He closes the flood gates, the noise slamming against them, the river runs dry and there’s no need for a dam, no need to organise it when there’s nothing to decipher. He creeps over to the bench where his bag lies, his skin clammy and bloody, now cooled off but sticky and unpleasant. He reaches for his phone, dials the voicemail number and holds his phone in his hand, this slab of metal thin but weighted with dread.

“Hey Matt, it’s Karen. I mean, you probably know that… Anyway. I’m just calling because we need you back at work. I know you’re on sick leave or annual leave or whatever but can you please just come back for a few days here and there. The place is… falling apart without you, Foggy’s falling apart. He can’t do it all by himself, I’m struggling to help him, I’m not the one who’s been to law school. Matt? I don’t know how much longer I have but please, please just come back for a few hours at least, help win a case. We need your courage, your motivation. We need-“

Karen’s electronic voice is cut off by the voicemail recording details.

Matt grips his phone in his hand, takes a seat on the bench. The life of the city bangs on his mental gates but he keeps them firmly shut. Claire’s right but it’s not so much about being better, that’s the wrong word. It’s about respect. It’s about selflessness. It’s about Matt not being a dick to people who care about him.

It’s about getting back up.

He should call. Instead he instructs his phone to send a text.

“I’ll see you Monday, 9am.”

 

-

There’s someone kicking his head over and over again, heavy boots plugging straight into his temples. He wants to fight back but his arms won’t move from his side, the brain messages not being received to punch back, to flail at least. His legs feel hot and his feet tied, there’s nothing he can do but wait it out, wait until the stranger stops banging. A consistent slamming, metal grating on metal, a shrill noise immobilising him.

Hands lay on his side and he feels as if he’s been thrown on a boat, swaying side to side. Water splashes over his lips and he tries to get a sense of the body of water, tries to recognise the radio waves, decipher the vibrations but any effort he makes is shattered by that hammer, that drill, bang, bang, bang, smashing his head open. Gravity is lost beneath him and his face is submerged in water, he can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t do anything, paralysed.

“Matt! Matt!”

Matt snaps his eyes open, greeted by familiar darkness. He emerges from the depths, heaviness lifting from his body, he comes to.

“Matt! Buddy, please wake up!”

Matt swallows, his throat parched, but his lips wet with tap water. He hears Foggy’s voice and tries to call out his name but he speaks dust, a scratchy cough in opposition to his illusion of drowning.

“Matt, oh my god, are you okay?” Foggy asks exasperated.

He kicks bed sheets away from his feet, reaches for Foggy, “what time is it?”

Foggy takes hold of Matt’s hand, “It’s 11am man,” he says, exasperated, and forcing a smile, “You’re late.”

Matt shoots up, fumbling to feel for his phone. One touch activates a voice recounting the time and that he’s missed over 20 calls. Matt’s chest swells, reality coming to him as the enemy pounding him mercilessly washes away. Instead of a single culprit being the one to inflict such mental damage on him, off in the distance he hones in on the mutterings of construction workers. Noise clatters in his mind, the precise conversations not yet clear to him, but the clanging of tools and machinery a formidable obstacle to compute the sound and vibrations of the world around him.

Construction work had been sweeping across New York since aliens poured out the sky, but the calamity of noise had always been just over the brink of his sense threshold. Recently, the demolition and construction had crept over his boundary, and he hadn’t quite anticipated the effect it would have on him.

“I think… I think I fainted,” Matt says, rubbing his neck.

Foggy drops his forehead on Matt’s hands, letting him briefly feel the man’s pulse thrumming through his head, “oh thank god. I thought it was much worse. Do I need to take you to the doctor anyway?”

“No. No doctors.”

“I should have known you’d say that.”

Matt grins, then slips his hands out of Foggy’s. He swings himself out of bed and stands up, feeling for his undershirt and slipping it on.

“You didn’t have to come, I would have woken up… I think.”

“See, it’s that hesitation that I don’t like. You’re never late and I gave you an hour leeway but then after that I got seriously worried. And you know I hate it when you don’t answer my calls.”

“Foggy I’m sorry, it’s… I never meant to worry you. The construction work was never close enough to affect me.”

“Construction work? You mean the work they’re doing at Mrs Cardenas’ place? – Old place. That’s… nowhere near here!”

Matt wanders over to his dresser and pulls out a button up, “it’s close enough for any sharp noises to jolt me into a trance. Wouldn’t be much of a problem if I wasn’t asleep.”

“You’re telling me a tradie dropped a spanner and you heard it?”

“Something like that.”

“And you fainted?”

“Yeah look this has never happened to me before. I didn’t know it _could_ happen,” Matt says as he buttons up his shirt.

“You’ve got to figure this out Matt.”

“I know, I just don’t know how yet okay?” Matt snaps.

“Sorry, I’m just you know, worried.”

Matt does up the top button and sighs, “I know. Do you want to uh, leave the room or something while I put my pants on?”

“Oh yeah, dude sorry,” Foggy replies, flustered.

He darts out of the room, shoves his hands in his pockets. As Matt finishes getting changed he listens to Foggy’s heartbeat, fast and nervous.

Matt comes out of his bedroom putting on his tie, “Foggy, can I ask you a favour?”

Foggy turns around, grinning, “anything for blind Matt Murdock.”

“Would I be able to stay with you tonight?” Matt begins, “I, uh, I’m still a bit overwhelmed with processing the noises and I’ll uh, I’ll need someone to wake me up if I get caught in a trance again.”

Matt pauses to read Foggy, anticipate the response. He knows he’s not meant to, Foggy made him promise not to read him, to respect his privacy. But in his vulnerable state of mind he justified reading Foggy not for his own safety but for Foggy’s, for his friend to not have to wake up every day worried that he would be knocked out in a trance. He only had Foggy’s best interests at heart, so he reads Foggy. He’s tense, hesitation stiffening his bones, his palms sweating, he’s going to say no.

“I completely understand if that’s too much to ask. I just need someone close by until I can train myself to ignore the interference in my sleep. And that’s not going to happen overnight.”

Foggy tugs at his collar as he speaks, “that might be a problem Matt… you know how… you know how I asked you not to _scan_ me or whatever, because some stuff is meant to be kept private, but also… some things about my life is just plain embarrassing.”

Matt takes a breath, forcing his focus away from Foggy, to anything else. To the windows, the morning sun heating the bricks, the salty, dusty scent they make when the heat of the sun warms them up.

That brittle taste in his mouth, he says, “you can tell me anything Foggy.”

Foggy takes a seat on one of Matt’s arm chairs, grips the arm rests, sweaty and tense, “ugh Matt I know I can tell you anything… and I wish that… you would as well,” Foggy says, frustrated.

“I’m getting there, I’m telling you about this right?” Matt says, leaning against the wall not so much out of laziness but out of necessity, for support. He imagines the sun pouring in through dusty windows, old bricks swelling with heat. Don’t read him, don’t read him.

“Yeah man, I appreciate you letting me in. And I want to help you, I do. But you can’t stay with me… because… God it’s embarrassing. Because I live at the office.”

 “The office?” He repeats, and suddenly Foggy’s situation makes sense to him. Why the microwave in the kitchenette so potently smells of various dinners, why well used rags drape over the tap, the scent of hair and skin follicles lingering over the place. Matt always had lunch out because the kitchenette was so unbearably unhygienic, he just assumed that Foggy and Karen were bad at cleaning up. And he now understood why Foggy had forbade him to read Foggy’s office as well. Not only for privacy. The scents and tastes of well lived in areas of the office make sense, because Foggy’s been sleeping, eating, and even bathing there.

“Foggy why-“

“Alright I don’t have to be a mind reader like you or a … radar sensor or whatever it is, to know you’re going to ask me a lot of questions and I knew this was coming. I knew you’d find out one way or another, didn’t know it would be of my own volition.”

“Foggy I’m not a mind reader, tell me how you let yourself live like this.”

Foggy scoffs, “it’s funny that you don’t have a clue. If you’ve listened to anything that Karen’s ever said you’d know we don’t exactly have a steady cash flow. And that doesn’t exactly help me in securing a rental agreement.”

“But why didn’t you just ask to stay with me?”

“Matt I couldn’t. Okay? After I found out… that you’re the guy in the mask… well, buddy I still don’t… I’m still pretty mad about it and I just couldn’t ask you okay. You… you betrayed my trust,” Foggy says, eyes tearing up, “but we’re partners and we need to move forward. And Karen’s right, we need to start ringing in some clients and solve cases. Get that pay cheque. Pay our _employee_. Pay bills, pay for food, pay for rent. It sucks that you’re feeling down after Fisk but I need my partner.”

“This sure is some pep talk Foggy.”

“I am really trying so hard. Is it working?”

“A bit.”

Foggy smiles, “and you know it would be really nice to sleep on a mattress someday rather than a pile of boxes.”

“And not wash yourself from the kitchen sink?”

“Yeah yeah, rub it in for the homeless guy why don’t you.”

“So stay with me then. You need a place to stay, I need someone to prevent me from becoming a vegetable. Works both ways.”

“Sleepover yay!” Foggy laughs.

“We used to share a room for school you remember that?”

“Yeah I was just trying to have a little fun okay?

“Let’s get going then, I’ve got a lot to catch up on and we’ve already lost the morning.”

Matt finds his stick and grips the handle, “and Foggy?”

Foggy pauses halfway from getting up off the chair, “yeah?”

“I know you haven’t forgiven me yet, and it’s okay if you don’t. But I feel like we’re getting somewhere,” Matt says hopefully.

Foggy stands up, straightens his jacket over his shirt, “let’s just see how your first day back goes okay?”

 

-

 

Matt lounges on his couch as he waits for Foggy to pick up their takeaway. Off in the distance the volume of the construction reduces, machinery turns off, tools put away, the chatter of workers disperse through the city. To be aware of it while awake will help him navigate through the swamp of noise while asleep. It’s just a matter of disciplined training, and until he gets it right he needs a control, he needs Foggy to save him when he’s drowning.

He hears the thunderous clatter of metal when the rooftop entry door rattles across. He should really give Foggy some keys. His friend wanders down the stairs, making sure to leap across the bottom step. He should also get the floor fixed. Another thing to add to the list of things that need repairs. First priority is his relationship with Foggy. He still has a lot to catch up on at work but Foggy seems content with him back, Karen seems more relaxed. He honestly feels chuffed about his first day back, like he’s got on the honour roll.

Foggy drops the plastic bags on the coffee table and kneels down on the rug. He starts to pull out various plastic boxes and arranges them on the table. Matt sits forward on the couch, trying to control his urge to completely devour all the food at once.

As Foggy opens up the boxes he says, “this reminds me of our college days.”

Matt laughs, “eating take away every night?”

Foggy reaches for chopsticks and snaps them in half, “yeah well what were we meant to do? Neither of us knew how to cook.”

Foggy passes chopsticks to Matt who smiles sheepishly, “I know how to cook.”

“No way, back then?”

Matt shrugs, “yeah I just never could be bothered.”

“Oh my god no freaking way. Think of all the money we could have saved if we had just cooked meals to last days. Think of all the weight I could have _not_ put on! Matt I blame you for this,” Foggy gestures to his stomach.

Foggy hesitates, “I was about to describe what I just did but you already know right?”

Matt nods, teeth set.

“You know, I always did wonder how you stayed so lean when we both ate equal amounts of junk back then. Makes more sense now that I know you were training that whole time.”

Matt stays silent, but the delicious scents from their dinner wafts over to him and his stomach, in a hideous moment of betrayal, rumbles loudly.

Foggy chuckles. He shrugs off the tension in his shoulders and passes a meal to Matt.

Between mouthfuls of rice and beans and spicy beef, Foggy thinks out loud, “it’s pretty interesting seeing how you’ve decorated your apartment. I should have picked it by the type of music you listened to at college.”

Matt pauses, causing his food to drop off his chopsticks, “what’s that meant to mean?”

“I’m just saying that your furniture style is so hipster. You need to lighten up the place a bit.”

“The light from the billboards outside aren’t enough?”

“I mean, I totally dig the blade runner glow but your apartment is pretty drab.”

“So what do you propose I do Foggy?”

“Well… firstly this place needs more dinosaurs,” Foggy says, dropping his chopsticks on the table.

“Dinosaurs?”

“Yeah, I got these dinosaur figurines, you remember them from Landman and Zack? Put a few of these babies around for a starters will make your place look a bit more… friendly.”

“Dinosaurs aren’t exactly known for being friendly Foggy.”

“Technically the non-friendly ones are all dead. Now they’re in the form of cute coloured figurines! I brought them with me, mind if I stick some around?” Foggy says, beaming.

Matt laughs, “you came prepared.”

Foggy gets up and starts to rummage through another plastic bag containing his few belongings. He takes out a handful of the figurines and starts arranging them around Matt’s apartment. Matt sits on the couch eating their dinner and pleasantly listening to Foggy mutter to himself, or rather to the dinosaurs, about the reason behind their positioning. He refers to each one by name, talks to them as if they share a history with each other, as if they have real personalities and connections with each other as humans. Matt should probably find this troubling but instead he just finds it cute.

Foggy leaves one on the windowsill of the living room then with a couple left in his palm, he stops at the doorway to Matt’s bedroom.

“I’ll ugh, I’ll leave you to put these two guys where you’d like,” Foggy says, heart beating faster.

Matt places his dinner on the coffee table and gets up, “nonsense Foggy, if it makes you feel more at home to be near your dinosaurs, you put them where you’d like.”

“No it’s your bedroom,” Foggy says as he backs into the room divider.

“Foggy,” Matt starts, “you must take the bed. I refuse to sleep in my bed when there’s a perfectly good couch to sleep on.”

Foggy hugs his sides, “but I’m your guest, I should be on the couch.”

Matt steps closer to Foggy, places a hand firmly on Foggy’s shoulder. He searches for Foggy’s mouth, faces towards the sound of his heavy breathing, “all I’ve done to you, all you’ve done for me…. You deserve an actual mattress.”

From there Matt can sense Foggy’s breathing causing his shoulders to rise and fall in such a way, can smell the traces of Chinese food on his lips. This probably isn’t what Claire meant when she said he needed to be a better friend. But during those last few weeks culminating to Fisk’s arrest, he felt like he barely saw Foggy anymore. He missed him, missed hearing his voice, missed Foggy actually willing to talk to him. And now he has him again.

Foggy reaches for Matt’s hand resting on his shoulder and Matt can sense the hesitation and insecurity in Foggy’s breathing. In an effort to shrug off the awkwardness of such a close encounter, he hooks his arm around Foggy’s and says, “dinner’s probably getting cold.”

Foggy relaxes and takes a deep breath. He leads Matt back to the couch, “do you even need to hold onto me?”

Matt feels for the couch and sits down, “not really, but I like to anyway.”

 

-

 

The moment the sun sets his apartment struggles to maintain the heat and instead allows the traffic from outside to push cool air across the cement floor. Matt curls up in a ball on his couch, tugging the woollen blanket tighter over his body, but only achieving in pulling it off his feet. He lies on his couch quite painfully aware of the sleepless presence of his best friend in the other room. Matt can’t sleep because Foggy can’t sleep, and the longer they go in this cycle, well they’ll both be zombies the next day if it continues.

So Matt throws the blanket off him and he shuffles toward his bedroom. He can tell Foggy has noticed so he begins to say, “you know another shitty thing about my apartment?”

Foggy’s heart races as Matt rounds to the other side of his bed.

“It’s too cold,” Matt says with a smile.

He clambers into his bed next to Foggy and curls into a ball again, trying to tuck the blanket over his neck. Foggy presses his hands between his legs in an attempt to warm them, Matt presently aware that his friend has relaxed ever so slightly.

“A, uh, conventional sleep over,” Matt chuckles, “but you’re unsettled that I was sleeping on the couch, so here I am. Fixing both our problems.”

Foggy purses his lips, “sorry it’s just weird, how you can tell that from…”

“Your breath, your heartbeat, the tenseness in your bones and muscles?” Matt offers.

Foggy rolls over to face Matt, “yeah, all that. It’s… very unsettling. Could you keep it to a minimum?”

“I do. I already know you Foggy.”

“I guess I’m… getting to know you again.”

Matt paws at the sheets. The silence drags on and apologies swell in Matt’s throat. He’s about to spill when Foggy draws in a breath and speaks, “this really is like college.”

Foggy slips his warm hands into Matt’s and continues, “do you remember? Back then…” he edges closer to Matt, the body heat between them building, making the blankets defunct, “I knew you so well, I thought you were my best friend.”

Matt holds onto Foggy’s hands tight, “we still are.”

Foggy swallows, his voice cracking, “we’re broken, Matt.”

“We’re not irreparable,” Matt rasps.

He extends one hand and touches Foggy’s face, gentle, tender, aware that his hands are cold. Foggy sighs, drawing his mouth open, he allows Matt’s thumb to graze his lips, lets Matt’s forefinger trail into Foggy’s mouth. Foggy sucks and rolls his tongue over Matt’s finger, draws his body close to his friend’s, the cool air escapes as they press close, skin touching skin. Matt smells the traces of curry clashing with the scent of his shampoo and soap over Foggy’s body. He places Foggy’s hand over his heart, lets him feel the truth.

“I’ve wanted this for so long, missed it,” Foggy begins, lolling Matt’s finger in his mouth, “but you probably knew that too.”

Matt takes his finger out of Foggy’s mouth and between kisses he whispers, “it’s been a long time coming.”

He kisses Foggy’s chin, his jaw, down his neck. Foggy stretches his fingers through Matt’s hair, soft but knotted. Matt nibbles Foggy’s nipple, teases it with his tongue and he can’t help but listen okay, it’s more fun that way. The way Foggy’s heart lurches at every touch, the way his muscles twitch in his face, in his arms, in his fingers eager to touch. The way his heart, oh Foggy’s heart, generous and gracious and sensitive, beating for him, for Matt’s continued fervour.

Foggy pulls him up, presses their lips together, hungry for warmth. Matt pulls the blankets over their heads, locking out the cool night air.

Foggy breaks away to speak, his voice sore and straining, Matt breathing across his cheek, “it’s dark but I can see burnt yellow light shining in from outside, it stabs through the gaps in the threads onto you. You’re golden.”

Matt tugs at Foggy’s boxers with his left hand, succeeding in pulling them off in one motion. He hooks his leg over Foggy’s waist and pushes him back, straddling the man. The blankets slip over his shoulders and he drags his sweater over his head, tosses it off the bed.

“You’re an angel,” Foggy says, and without falter, he rolls his hips, pressing his hardened cock into Matt’s ass.

Matt lets out a gasp, holding onto Foggy’s shoulders to keep balance, “you make me feel beautiful,” Matt rasps.

“I feed your ego,” Foggy counters, hooking his thumbs in Matt’s sweatpants, coaxing the elastic to give.

Matt stretches, lets Foggy pull of his pants, cold air bouncing off his hot skin. Foggy sits up, straddles Matt in his lap, their cocks press together but he wraps Matt’s arms around him, a tantalising barrier, leave the good stuff for later. Matt claws at Foggy’s back, massages his shoulders, combs his fingers through Foggy’s long hair. He grinds his ass against Foggy’s thighs, static friction heightening between them. Foggy bites Matt’s shoulder and he can practically feel the snarky grin.

“Foggy, please,” Matt begs, arching his back.

Foggy licks his lips, “is there…”

“Drawer on the left,” Matt replies.

Foggy lies back and stretches out for the drawer, fishes out lube and condoms, “you sure you’re not a mind reader?”

He hoists Matt in his lap again and unwraps two condoms. He rolls one on his dick then places the other on the head of Matt’s dick, kissing him slowly as he pulls the plastic down, matching the pace of their kiss. Matt admires how collected Foggy appears to be, so calm in his gentle movements, as if he’s savouring every touch, every taste.

Matt puts his weight on his knees and slides his ass over Foggy’s cock, eliciting a moan out of them both.

“Wait,” Foggy breathes, pulling Matt back, “I know you like to get yourself hurt, but I don’t.”

Matt clenches his thighs around Foggy, hears him unscrew the lid to the lube jar. Foggy scoops out some and lathers some on Matt’s dick. Matt shivers at the touch, at the cool, aloe vera tickling his nostrils. Foggy rubs his hand up Matt’s shaft, causing him to mewl.

“You’re a mess,” Foggy drawls, pressing his forehead on Matt’s chest.

Foggy kisses his skin there, sloppy, Matt can tell he’s losing it. Heavy breathing through Foggy’s mouth, hot breath skates over Matt’s chest and Foggy’s itching, heaving. Foggy digs out more goop and slips his hand under Matt’s thigh, seeks his hole, their hearts competing, loud percussions between them. Foggy slips one finger in, gently pressuring Matt’s muscles to loosen, he slips in another, massaging the passage, Matt bites his lip, ignores the copper taste.

Matt drops his head on Foggy’s, buries his face in Foggy’s hair, refreshes his memory of what this man’s hair smells like. He tries to follow Foggy’s suit, tries to remain calm as Foggy fingers him, tries to keep his cool as Foggy pumps his dick in time with finger thrusting, he’s got all that meditation training and for what? For it to go down the drain the moment he gets needy?

God answers his calls when Foggy shifts Matt again, drags Foggy’s dick under his, a trail to his ass and he presses in, slowly stretching tender skin. Matt rolls forward and hooks Foggy’s face up, joins foreheads. He moans unabashedly loud, Foggy throbbing inside him. He wants to rut like a dog but Foggy tames him, pushes in and out, slow and steady wins the race. Matt’s aware of every fraction of Foggy’s skeleton, every grind of bone every tense of muscle, friction inside and out. Matt holds onto Foggy’s shoulders for support and he tries to do it one handed, tries to jerk himself off but Foggy starts going faster, numbing his senses in a surely purposeful move.

All Matt can do is grip onto Foggy for sheer life as Foggy grinds into him, rolls his dick right on his sweet spot, bullseye every time. Matt makes disgusting gargling noises as his training goes out the window, he gives up holding on, gives in to Foggy’s unrelenting passion, gives in to the heat and fullness and sweat. Waves roll over his back and he comes, blanks out momentarily, zero gravity taking hold, making loose, for moments as he unleashes.

Foggy breathes over him, satisfied, his back arches, and he pushes in and out hard a few last times as he comes. They collapse on the mattress, sweaty on silky sheets, Matt’s dizzy from the swirl of senses, sounds and tastes and smells and the looseness of his ass, the feel of Foggy pulling out, half full or half empty. Somehow during his daze Foggy cleans them both up, disposes of the condoms. He lies back on the mattress and Matt curls up against him, arms over his chest, legs over legs. He needed this.

"I can't believe you kept your socks on," Foggy whispers, rubbing their feet together.

Matt nuzzles Foggy, "hey, they're warm  _and_ comfy."

 

-

 

Water slips over his legs, warm and light like the surface of the sea. His ears are covered, water blocking his hearing. He motions through the water, pushes his head up through the air and the smell of salt coats his nose. He doesn’t like to swim. The vibrations of animals, of plants, of man made objects that occupy the spaces in the water are dampened by the density of water. It’s harder to navigate in, but somehow, with the sun beating down on him and the gentleness of the waves, he feels safe.

The waves start to roll faster, dragging his body in an out of shore, gentle rolls. Suddenly, he feels a hard slap on his face and in an instant the water dissolves, dissipates to the slippery, seaweed covered ocean floor. Clattering of metal and drilling of cement and chatting and sawing and a mixture of noises come for him, a barrage of arrows aimed for him. But this time I knows it’s coming, he’s prepared for it. He focuses on the noise and funnels it all down, siphons it down to a manageable trickle.

He feels Foggy moving his hand to his heart and it grounds him, the wet seafloor solidifying to his silk sheets.

“Thank you,” Matt breathes.

He maps out his room, individual vibrations signaturing their position. Foggy’s clothing in a messy pile on the floor, jar of lube left unscrewed on the bedside table. He catches his breath, calmed by the ease of Foggy.

“What time is it?” Matt asks.

Foggy sits up, lets Matt’s head rest in his lap. He folds Matt’s thick hair in strips between his fingers, shaping it, “It’s 7.”

Matt relaxes, “we still have time to hug then.”

Foggy rests his head on the wall. He rubs Matt’s back, tracing a picture between the freckles on Matt’s skin. “Why don’t you just buy yourself some ear plugs?”

Matt pinches Foggy’s belly just to feel him squirm, and lifting his head he says, “Want me to be blind and deaf?”

“The double whammy! But couldn’t you _smell_ that it’s day time?”

“I can’t smell time Foggy. How would I know if it’s 7am or 11am?”

“I don’t know, you can smell food from pretty far away right? You could figure out someone’s morning ritual and go by their schedule.”

“Yeah that would take too much stalking,” Matt replies. He plants a kiss on Foggy’s belly, “besides, isn’t this better?”


End file.
